Could it have been the late-night petal pincher?

FIFTEEN

Tricia hated the expression “slept like the dead,” but that’s exactly what had happened when she’d laid her head upon her pillow. And yet her sleep was not restful. Hours later, she’d awoken feeling foggy and somewhat disoriented. She was glad to give in to her usual routine of rising, walking, and buying coffee.

The Coffee Bean was between customers when she walked in. Alexa stood behind the counter. “Ah, the other sister,” she called, and laughed.

Tricia glanced at her watch. It was only seven thirty. Had Angelica beaten her there?

“I take it Angelica has already been over to see you?”

“Yes, and we are thrilled to help her catch the felon ruining the flowers,” she said with just a trace of a Russian accent.

A misdemeanor, maybe, but Tricia wasn’t about to argue with the barista. “Thank you.”

“Now, your usual brew?” Alexa asked.

A minute later, Tricia was on her way back to the Chamber to shower, dress, eat a modest breakfast, and feed her cat before starting the rest of her day.

The morning sun blazed through the Chamber’s front windows, giving the office a kind of cheerful glow. Mariana arrived, made a pot of coffee, turned on her radio, and all was right with the world.

The phone rang at 9:32, and caller ID told Tricia it was none other than Mr. Everett. She picked up the receiver with pleasure.

“Hello, Mr. Everett. How are you this lovely morning?”

“Very well indeed,” he said, and his voice conveyed his own pleasure. Oh, how she’d missed seeing the elderly gent on a daily basis.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve spoken with someone at the Historical Society about Peter Renquist’s memorial service. Naturally, they’re just as upset that Ms. Koch was assaulted. They would prefer to wait several weeks for her to recover—”

If she recovers, Tricia thought to herself.

“—before they plan any kind of service for Mr. Renquist. As she knew him best, they feel she should speak for the Society.”

“That does seem reasonable,” Tricia admitted.

“However, I did learn that there will be a gathering of Peter’s friends and some of his colleagues at the Dog-Eared Page this evening at about eight o’clock. I knew you would want to attend.”

“I certainly do.”

“Peter’s friends are invited to share their memories of him.”

“Will you?” Tricia asked.

“I fear that my association with Peter was so long ago that it would be irrelevant. But I do want to pay my respects.”

“Of course,” Tricia said.

“Very good. Grace and I will see you then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”

“I must get back to work. Frannie has a big box of books for me to inventory. It’s great fun, I must confess. I’ll see you this evening.”

“See you then. Good-bye.”

Tricia replaced the receiver, staring at it for a long moment, but then the phone rang again. She picked it up. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. This is Tricia. How may I help you?”

“Hello, love. Are you available for lunch?”

Tricia smiled at the sound of the voice with the lilting English accent. “Why, yes, I am. What did you have in mind, Michele?”

“The weather is spectacular, and I think it would be brilliant to have a picnic lunch. Are you game?”

Tricia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a real picnic. “Sounds wonderful. Where?”

“The Stoneham Rural Cemetery.”

“Oh!” Tricia said with a start.

“I want to do a preliminary scout to get a feel for the place, and as you’re going to be my study-buddy, I thought you might enjoy a ramble through the graves. It’ll be great fun,” she insisted.

Tricia tried to sound positive. “If you say so. Where shall we meet? What should I bring?”

“You don’t need to bring anything. We can meet right in the parking lot at the cemetery’s front entrance. Unless there’s a funeral, there shouldn’t be a crowd.” She laughed.

“What time?”

“Is one o’clock too late?”

“It’s just fine,” Tricia said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Brilliant. Cheerio.”

“Bye.” Tricia put the phone down.

“Got a hot lunch date with that hunky guy?” Mariana asked eagerly.

Tricia’s expression soured. “No. I’m picnicking with a friend.”

“Going anywhere romantic?” she asked slyly.

“The cemetery.”

“Oh,” Mariana said, startled.

Tricia tried not to smile, with limited success. She had no problem confounding Mariana.

•   •   •

The short ride along Stoneham’s back roads to the Stoneham Rural Cemetery was pleasant and treelined. The humidity had dropped, and as Michele had said, the weather was spectacular. As Tricia pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, she recognized Michele’s car. Michele sat behind the driver’s wheel, speaking into her cell phone. Tricia parked, got out of her car, and approached Michele’s. Across the way a middle-aged woman and a much older man stood over a grave. The woman was arranging a colorful bunch of flowers in an urn attached to a headstone while the old man wiped tears from his eyes. A picnic seemed so frivolous when others were in pain.

Still, Michele was here to celebrate the lives of the cemetery’s historical denizens—or at least bring attention to some of its more noteworthy occupants. Noteworthy if not infamous in some capacity.

Michele saw Tricia, waved, and quickly finished her conversation. She put the phone away and got out of her car. Key fob in hand, she popped the hatch of her Mini Cooper. “I hope you brought your appetite. The Brookview Inn is very generous with their portions.”

“I’ll try to make a dent,” Tricia promised.

Michele lifted a straw picnic basket out of the trunk, and Tricia shut the hatch.

“Hmm, it’s heavier than I thought,” Michele admitted. “It must be the iced tea—or maybe the cold packs. Would you mind?” she asked, offering Tricia one of the basket’s handles. It was a bit awkward, but the basket was indeed heavy. “There’s a bench under a tree not far from here.”

“Lead the way,” Tricia said.

The sun beat down on them as they made their way down the narrow ribbon of asphalt that wound through the cemetery. As it was older than the other cemeteries in the area, this one still allowed headstone monuments instead of flat markers. The monuments near the front of the cemetery were older, some of them wind-worn, chipped, and difficult to read.

“I wonder what these tombstones are made of,” Tricia said idly.

“Primarily granite, marble, and limestone,” Michele said, and gave a small laugh. “I’ve already started my research.”

“You really enjoy this, don’t you?” Tricia asked.

“I think the ghost walks will be great fun and a wonderful fundraiser for the cemetery. It costs money to maintain these old graves, and these monuments are all that’s left for the world to know about the generations of people who lived and died here in Stoneham.”

“Sounds like you’ve adopted the village—and its predecessors.”

“I enjoy living here. When I was offered the job of managing the Dog-Eared Page, I wondered if I’d miss living in a larger city, but I don’t. I grew up in a small village in England, and while Stoneham is nothing like it, it’s a slower pace, and I’m at a time in life where I enjoy that.”

Tricia looked ahead to where a line of white oaks made a barrier not far from the black wrought iron fence that was the cemetery’s east border. As Michele had indicated, there was shade and a wood-and-metal bench painted forest green. In a minute, they’d made their way over to the bench and sat down. Michele opened the basket and removed a thermos and two plastic cups, setting them on the bench between them, then withdrew two square foam containers, handing one of them to Tricia.